Start Me Up
by Garrae
Summary: He'd been pretty close to celibate for months...which had left him here, a hundred miles and more north of the city, God alone knew where, on a bike he could just about ride with a temper he could just about control and absolutely no idea where to go or what to do next. AU, Pre-series, 2-shot #CastlePornado2019
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

He didn't ride a motorcycle often. Or indeed at all. He had a perfectly wonderful Ferrari, currently residing in his perfectly wonderful garage under his perfectly wonderful loft. So why he would risk life and limb on a two-wheeled death trap was…

Well, not a mystery at all.

Certainly not one that he would write, which involved red herrings by the shoal, villains, heroes, mixed motivations and beautiful women. None of which were part of why he was currently defying death on the interstate, in the form of homicidal trucks and psychopathic SUVs. It was really very simple. He had no inspiration, no goal, and, as of less than a week ago, no wife; so he'd decided to take the Kerouac route, and get on the road. Somehow – call it post-divorce crisis, call it what you will – he'd decided that a motorbike would be grittier, closer to the road, more _real_. (It surely would be if he took a tumble.)

So he'd bought a bike (not a Harley: that wasn't his style) and the leathers; eschewed a bandana in favour of a helmet; taken a quick course after he left Alexis in summer camp (that had already been planned, and she couldn't wait to go, which hadn't helped his mood at all), and set off, northward from Manhattan, four days post-divorce. _Second_ divorce. And that didn't improve his mood, temper, or find him any inspiration either.

Richard Castle, noted playboy, celebrity author, rich, handsome, and envied – was sulking. The growl of the bike's engine precisely matched the growling anger of his ever-blacker mood. As the miles went by, his riding confidence increased, his introspection darkened, and he passed from sulks to anger to frustration. At a brief stop, he stopped concentrating on the road and finally managed to identify his real issue – he'd been pretty close to celibate for months.

He never cheated. His first wife had cheated, and he'd seen enough dishonesty in his life that he'd promised himself that, no matter _what_, if he made a promise he'd keep it. So despite the fact that his second marriage had been a mistake from the get-go, and the previously excellent sex had faded in a fog of mismatched expectations: his writing, his feelings, her feelings, her position as his editor – he'd kept that promise. Faithful all the way.

He really wished he hadn't been. Because just thinking about his lack of any sex life was leaving him even more frustrated and angry than he had been. He should have gone out and found a party the night of the divorce, he thought bitterly. Some pretty, vapid woman who'd have slaked his need. But then he'd have had to explain the page six gossip to Alexis, and listen to his mother, and, well, neither of those was an appealing prospect. Of course, now he didn't need to be faithful, since there was nobody to be faithful _to_. He'd bought a box of condoms in the small store at the first stop; in case – in hope, and then kept on moving.

Which had left him here, a hundred miles and more north of the city, God alone knew where, on a bike he could just about ride with a temper he could just about control and absolutely no idea where to go or what to do next.

He flipped the stand down and locked the motorcycle in the parking lot of the stop, barely noticing the Harley a few spaces over; took the helmet off and ran fingers through his hair. He hadn't shaved that morning, either. He couldn't actually remember if he'd shaved that week. Who cared, anyway? He'd get something to eat, a drink, and if this place had rooms, maybe he'd just pour a few drinks down and stay the night. It wasn't like he had anywhere to be, or any reason to be there, and it surely wasn't likely that he'd find company.

He entered the stop, noting the bar to the right of the entrance, and a small reception desk to the left, advertising rooms. His foul mood coalesced into the idea that he'd drink himself to sleep and worry about everything else in the morning.

"Hey," he said to a bored, spotty kid. "Got a room for tonight?"

"Sure. Single, double?"

"Double." Singles were never wide enough.

The youth took the details, monumentally failing to recognise Castle, handed him a key, and gestured languidly to a dingy corridor. "Down there."

"Okay." Castle took his small knapsack and himself to the room, and found, much to his surprise, that it was clean and, when he flopped down on the bed, comfortable. There was a reasonably-sized shower in a decent enough bathroom; the window had blinds. There were even towels of moderate softness and size. It was all rather better than he'd expected: not that it cured his angry frustration.

He made himself comfortable, changed into jeans and soft shoes, and headed for the bar. As he neared its door, he could hear a cool, crisp command of "Vodka tonic, please." It was female. His heart sank. The very, very last thing he wanted to meet was some older woman who was used to being in charge and giving orders. He'd happily said goodbye to schoolmarms years earlier, and he didn't need reminded of his ex either. His frustration, which had slightly diminished on finding that his room would be comfortable, leapt up again, and wasn't soothed when he told himself that he didn't have to exchange a single word with anyone, let alone bossy women; he could simply sit and slug back Scotch.

He walked in, flung a fast glance around, and saw no-one, which was a considerable relief. He also saw a bottle of Scotch, which was likewise a considerable relief.

"Double Scotch, please," he said. The Scotch arrived, and he took the glass to a small booth, setting it sharply down and dropping hard on to the seat. With some vain hope that he might see something that sparked some, or any, inspiration, he faced the bar. He supposed, acidly, that he could always write Gothic horror set in a rural motel bar. The dimness of the lighting would have hidden everything up to, but possibly not including, a pure white Bigfoot.

The first slug of Scotch burned all the way down. The second began to soothe his scarified soul. The third was more of a sip, as he eased. The fourth was a true sip, and he sat back and let his mind float freely.

A second double, and at least an hour, later, Castle was closer to mellow than at any time in the last six months: that was, he was no longer ready to start a fight with the nearest feather. He vaguely sensed a movement in the vicinity of the bar, but, on hearing the same cool, commanding tones as earlier, lost interest. He'd wait till she was gone before getting another.

Half a millisecond later, he was riveted. Older, bossy woman? No way. That was…um…around five-nine of slim gorgeousness, still in black leather motorcycle pants and a skin-tight white t-shirt, displaying a figure to die for. The badass black was heightened by the gun on her hip. She looked no more than twenty-five, though the voice made him mentally add a couple of years. He listened unashamedly.

"Another vodka tonic, please."

"You staying tonight?"

"I guess. Don't wanna scratch my Hog."

"No way."

When she talked about her Harley, her voice changed, as if she were talking about a lover: soft, smoky and sensual. Castle was transfixed. He leaned forward to see better, knocked his glass, and instantly decided that _now_ was the best time to get another.

"Hey," he said, sliding up to the bar. "Can I get another – a single, please?"

"You staying tonight?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah. I don't drink and drive."

The instant sense of disapproval from the woman on his left vanished. "Hey," she said, a touch reserved, until she turned and met his eyes. Tall. He couldn't tell her eye colour, but her hair was dark; curling at the ends of a choppy cut. He had the impression that normally it was straightened, but the messiness (maybe from the helmet?) made his fingers itch to run through it, tug and pull and hold her head to his.

Oh. Wow. The tide of hot desire that surged through him was…unexpected. And then she smiled, perfectly confident, perfectly easy – and perfectly ignorant of who he was. Not a single flicker of recognition.

"I'm Kate."

"Rick. Um…you come here often?"

She laughed. "Guess the old ones are the best, huh?"

He grinned back. "It's a motel off the interstate. It's every cliché in the book already, so far be it from me to ignore the chance to use another one."

"Very slick." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "I stop here on the way to the Adirondacks, and the way back."

Castle didn't miss the lack of detail. "First time for me," he said, equally vague.

Her smile brightened. "To the journey," she said, and clinked his glass with hers.

"To the journey," he repeated, "and serendipitous meetings on the way."

Her quirked eyebrow turned cynical. He met her gaze boldly. "This is a pleasant meeting, and I couldn't have predicted it. Serendipity."

Suddenly she grinned again. "So you do know what it means."

"Hey! I never use a word if I don't know its meaning."

"Oh? So you're never caught in a malapropism?"

He stared at her.

"Never speak…fallaciously?"

He thought he might be drooling. He caught her eye, and…was that a spark of interest? Because he was _more_ than interested. He inched a fraction closer, and saw her notice – and not back off.

"Linguistic exactitude," he purred, and her eyes flared, "is the epitome of etymology; the peak of perfection."

"Not the pinnacle of pomposity?"

"No. Nor the point of pretentiousness."

She laughed again: a ripple of raunchiness underlying the humour. He inched again. She gave him a knowing glance, and didn't move away. "I do like a man who knows how to use his tongue," she murmured, and Castle was _positive_ that she didn't only mean language. Her tone oozed sexuality.

About that point, it occurred to him to wonder why this stunning slice of sensuousness wasn't giving him the total brush-off but instead was openly flirting back.

And then he decided that he really didn't care. If she was interested – he was _totally_ up for that. He didn't care if it was a one-hour stand or a one-night stand as long as he had _someone_ that he could simply, well, _fuck_. He altered his stance a fraction, becoming a little larger, a little more assertively masculine: letting heat and desire spill out into the empty bar around them. Her smile altered in return: a fraction more feline; her hands smoothed down over the black leather pants, surely custom-fitted to the longest legs he'd ever seen. His own jeans were almost painfully tight, and Kate's slow look downward from his waist and back again did _not_ help.

He gave up on inching, and moved the foot that took him to within her personal space. Invitation dripped from her: the sure, dark knowledge that he'd be hers plain in her eyes; matching the knowledge that she'd be his there in the blaze of his own eyes.

Finally, she made a move. Her hand dropped over his, and her touch _scorched_. He turned his hand, and trapped long, slim fingers in his broad span.

"I like a woman in leather," he growled.

"Sounds like we both like something the other's got," she whispered, so that he had to lean in. She traced a fingernail over his week's worth of stubble, and he drew in breath. "What are you waiting for?"

"You," he grated, "and now you're here." He tugged her hand, and she came to the pressure and ended up against him. He locked his hands in the small of her back, and looked slightly down at her. She rolled her hips against him, and acquired a sly, secretive smile.

"Pleased to meet me?"

"Yep," he said suavely. "Shall we continue this discussion elsewhere?"

"Sounds good to me." She slipped a finger through the belt loop of his jeans, and turned within his arms to leave the bar. He didn't move. "Thought you wanted to find somewhere else?"

"I do. But I'm not going to be led by the nose."

"Newsflash: that's not your nose."

He barked out a laugh. "And this isn't yours," he replied, sliding hands down over her leather-clad rear, pulling her back close in. She wriggled. "So how about we try that again?" One hand crept around her waist. Hers slid around his middle. "That's better," he said. "Now, your place or mine?"

A smirk crept across her lush lips. "I've only got a single room."

"Mine, then."

"How do I know you're not a crazed serial killer?"

"You're the one with the gun."

"And here I thought you had a pistol in your pocket."

Castle laughed, and a tightness in his soul loosened. "Like I said, I'm pleased to meet you." He turned her round in the dim corridor, alone and out of sight of any of the staff, slid his hand up into her hair, and dipped his head to kiss her.

Their lips met. Her mouth opened. Her back hit the wall and then he didn't need to use anything but raw instinct because there was nothing but her mouth and body and the small noises that matched his rasping breath. He fought free of the fire and stared at her, mutating into a slow, lazy smile.

"Well," he drawled, hiding his complete shock. "That was unexpectedly hot. Shall we try it again – in private?"

Kate merely smiled at him: a sultry semi-pout that did nothing to calm his raging lust – but her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, and that had been as much of a shock to her as to him. She curled a hand around his neck, clearly intending to bring him back to her mouth.

"Nuh-uh. Private." He unlocked the door, and dropped his volume and into his best bedroom baritone. "Now, come here." He smoothly pulled her into him, one hand at her ass, one cradling her skull and holding her perfectly angled so that he could take her mouth again.

It was as explosive as their first kiss. Lips touched, mouths opened – and he invaded: desperate to take, raid and conquer; to have her make those same small, sexy noises and fly as high as he could take her. He pulled her closer, trapping her between his broad body and the wall; pressing against lean muscle and the harp points of her nipples: her hands dug into his shoulders and she was right there with him; duelling for control of the hard kiss but he _wasn't_ giving that up. His fingers knotted in her hair; he angled her head for deeper access; her leg wrapped around his waist and _fuck_ that felt so good as he ground into her. She rolled against him, as frantic for him as he was for her, and his hand ripped her t-shirt out of the leather pants and stroked up her spine, took the cotton with it, stopped kissing for long enough to flick it over her head and off in one fast movement, to leave her open and exposed from the waist up.

He pulled back a little: hot eyes savouring the sight of smooth, creamy skin swelling into small, perfect breasts in an ivory lace bra; leaned down again, further, and then changed his mind to travel round to her elegant neck, finding a spot that made her squeak and wriggle; holding her still until squeaks changed to sighs and then to gasps. He was rock hard, but somewhere in his sex-addled brain he wanted to make sure that she was as satisfied as he would be.

His fingers slithered round and found the fastenings of her pants, undid them by touch and slipped inside, pressing downward over more lace to cup her and she whimpered and pushed into his hand, writhing and her panties were soaked; as wet as he was hard. He took her mouth again and thrust one large finger into her; the heel of his hand rubbing the knot of nerves and she squirmed and shuddered and came apart around his finger.

He didn't withdraw it at once, coaxing her through the aftershocks and still owning her mouth as she eased and softened. Sleepy, sexy eyes re-opened, and her hands dropped from their grip on his shoulders to remove the fastened holster and then push down the leather. He watched, transfixed, as several miles of naked legs revealed themselves, culminating in her folding at the waist, undoing her boots, and removing boots and pants together, kicking them away to puddle darkly in a corner.

She straightened up, as confident and flexible as a cat, unashamed and unembarrassed. "Like what you see?" she purred. "'Cause I like what you do." She reached for him, and pushed his black t-shirt up and off, so that she could admire his chest and then draw sharp nails – but they were almost short, unpolished, and he wondered why: it didn't match the erotic lingerie – lightly down over the muscle to the belt of his jeans, pausing there. She grinned. "I'd like you to do me," she said, flicked his belt and jeans open, shoved them from his hips, grabbed his head and took his mouth in one hard, fast foray. He fought back, size and sheer strength turning the tables, hoisting her up so that her scorching centre landed against iron-hard erection and held her tightly there; pressing and rubbing so that she could have no doubt of his intentions. "Hope you've got protection," she murmured, "but if not…" He almost came right then: the lick of her lips left _nothing_ to his imagination.

"Yes," he said, but dropped her on her back on the bed and fell over her, toeing off his own shoes and jeans: nudging her legs wider with his own, settling between them and pressing her down into the quilt. She gasped, and wriggled beneath him: firing him up further: just the welcome of warm, wet woman under him and wanting him, wanton for him – he needed it. Her. He had to have her.

"Stay there," he commanded, and she quirked an eyebrow at him, but did, watching with dilated pupils and wet lips as he found the box and prowled back to her. He loomed over the bed, broad, tall; forcefully male and fully aroused. "Hot," he growled. "Tonight, you're mine."

"Or you could be mine," she flirted, and moved invitingly.

Castle's six-month frustration boiled up and over. "You're _mine_," he insisted, dropped on to the bed, tore off her bra and panties and flung his boxers away, took one hard stroke of fingers through her scalding centre and sheathed himself to rise over her; she started to guide him home but with one thrust he took her. Her hands bit into his back, she sucked in air and stilled for a second; but just as his heart sank she shifted slightly, he sank still deeper into her, and she dragged his head to hers to ravage his mouth.

She was so tight and wet around him, he knew he wouldn't last; managed to work a hand between them and find her, press on the nerves and circle as he thrust faster and harder, out of all control, and only just brought her to climax again as he exploded into her.

He barely remembered to roll over and off before he collapsed, empty and spent, clinging to her.

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._

_This is my Castle Pornado 2019 entry. I know that it's only supposed to be a one-weekend thing, but to prolong your reading pleasure, __Chapter 2 will be up on Tuesday. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Gradually, his heart rate dropped, and he discovered a pair of hazel eyes observing him from his shoulder.

"Were you intending to let go of me?" she asked.

Castle clamped down on his first reaction of _Hell, no! _and loosened his grip. Kate slithered sideways, but didn't completely lose contact, leaving her head on his collarbone and an arm over his chest. He liked that. "I need to go clean up," he said reluctantly. "Don't go away."

She stretched. "What?"

Castle pulled on some game. "We got time. You like what I do. I like what you do. Let's do it together. No strings. No commitment." A tiny pang bit at the last four words, but he ignored it.

"Okay," she said, and his heart soared. As did other parts of his body.

"Gimme a minute."

"Doesn't look like you need it."

"Clean up. No consequences."

"There won't be." Another sultry smile took the sting from her words. Castle cleaned up in record time, and returned to the bed, instantly ready at the sight of the loose-limbed, naked beauty spread across it. "Impressive," she said, openly ogling, and reached for him.

"Impatient," he teased.

"Time. We should make good use of it."

"Yeah." He reached the bed. "You look good enough to eat."

"I said I liked a man who knows how to use his tongue."

"That a challenge?"

"Do you want it to be?"

"I like a challenge. Let's make it fun. Every time I make you come, you stay another hour."

"Cocky, aren't you?" But she wasn't saying no. "Every time you come, I choose what you do next."

"Fine with me." He raked a blazing gaze down her. "I'll do all of you." He leaned up over her. "Starting – but definitely not finishing – here." He landed on her lips, took her mouth despite her efforts to take his, and only once she'd softened and stopped fighting, instead accepting him, moved round and down, tweaking the nerve that had made her squeak, nibbling along her collarbones, controlling his desperation to leave her marked. Her hands roamed his back, teasing lower, sneaking round to palm him. He plucked them away.

"You're cheating," he said, and pinned her hands by her ears.

"I don't think so," she replied, and snapped her wrists free.

He caught them again, exerting a little more force. "Nuh-uh. I – wow." He was flat on his back, staring up at her. "How'd you do that?"

"Practice." She sheathed him before he'd absorbed her word, straddled him, and sank down. He stopped thinking. She fitted around him perfectly, taking the whole of him in one smooth envelopment, leaning down to kiss him. He pushed upwards, and then flipped them so that she was under him and he could take her again, revelling in the feeling of all out, enthusiastic, partnered _sex_. He'd missed it so much: the connection, the hot rush of orgasm, the ability to leave a woman sated, exhausted and totally satisfied. And he had this woman for as long as his expertise would allow. He pulled back, and thrust hard forward: she arched and gasped and then opened impossibly further, taking him impossibly deep; but one small brain cell told him to make sure that she came first. He gathered some control and set a steady, pulsing rhythm that left her writhing beneath him, crying out for more and he touched her again, intimately, slicking through soaked heat, and she exploded on the first touch and took him with her.

"This time," he grated, when he could breathe again, "you're going to lie back and enjoy it."

"You came. I get to choose what you do."

"You came. You stay for another hour. Plenty of time to choose." He didn't want her to choose. He wanted to turn her into a melted mess of lust, screaming his name and only seeing and sensing him. He couldn't get enough of her. He'd stopped worrying why she was up for it: he didn't care if she was a serial killer herself because he'd die happy.

She pouted, which was, amazingly, even sexier than before. "Have it your way," she humphed, but she wriggled enticingly, sliding a foot over his legs and encouraging him back to her.

"Have _you_ my way," he grinned.

He started where he'd left off, along the sharp line of her collarbones, then moved down to the mounds of her breasts, pink tipped and oh-so-edible. He drew one into his mouth, and she squirmed and sighed; his hand enclosed the other, thumb rubbing over the peak. She moved sensuously, her breathing quickening. He sucked and laved; nipped softly and when she clearly liked it, a little harder. Her hands clamped round his skull, her legs wrapped round his back to hold him in place; her small sexy noises intensified. She writhed and rubbed herself against him, leaving dampness on his stomach. Instinct told him to continue; hard desire reminded him that every climax gave him another hour of wild, wanton desire.

"_More_," she gasped out. "Don't stop."

He didn't. She moved frantically to the pulse of his licks and sucks and nips; palming and teasing pinches; winding her tighter and higher and she was demanding he do more, harder, faster and cried out and came again and fell back. He didn't move away, but slid further down, keeping her spread below him; stroking her gently.

"Come here and kiss me," she ordered.

"As you wish," he agreed, dipped his head and kissed her. She shrieked. He licked through slick folds, and she shrieked again.

"_Fuck please I can't ohhhhhh fuck more_!"

She tasted of heaven; as sweet as honey; his stubble rasped against her but she wasn't complaining, arching against his mouth and utterly undone, words lost, wholly his: he took her with tongue and fingers and a tiny scrape of teeth. Every wordless noise restored him to himself; every drop of dampness brought him back. He slowed up, holding her on the edge: everything he needed and everything he wanted. He'd have her there all night. On the thought, she writhed against him and he couldn't help but drive her up and over again.

Beckett lay, completely blissed out and unsure where her limbs had gone, utterly relaxed. She'd been totally tense on the way here; months of difficult cases and a punishing schedule keeping her from thinking – about her father, about her ex-boyfriend. So she'd got on her bike and just…gone: told her father she was going up to the cabin, used up some of her accumulated leave, and stopped here, not caring if she spent the night here or pushed on. When she'd parked her Hog, she'd decided to stay, checked in and then gone to the deserted bar, gotten a vodka, heavy on tonic; and then another.

And then he'd shown up. Broad, tall, sexy in a scruffily stubbled fashion – and a total stranger. She'd been single for months, and not been bothered, but something about him had brought those dry months crashing down on her. So she'd shown an equal interest to the flaring lust in his face, and oh _boy_ had no-strings sex been the right decision. He was _perfect_. She'd had a moment of almost-discomfort – the man was _big_ – and then she'd wriggled and he'd fit and he surely, surely knew how to use his mouth and his body.

She was fuzzily sure that she'd never reacted to _anyone_ like she had to this Rick. Even just the kiss had been explosive. And now she was flat out, three spectacularly intense orgasms to the good, and honestly, she didn't mind how long the night lasted as long as he was that good again. And again. And then again some more. Though she'd happily reciprocate. A mischievous thought wiggled into her brain, which arrived as _his turn to scream for more_.

As she turned into the wide expanse of nicely muscled chest, she noticed that she was held close, and Rick's talented hands were petting. It felt nice. Soothing. As if her total satisfaction wasn't enough, the petting was extracting all her tension and leaving her silk-soft and lax. She needed that, even if it was only tonight. She snuggled in, curving over his flank and leaving her head over his heart, her fingers unconsciously stroking in time with his.

The naughty thought continued to knock at her head until it knocked through the sensual fog blanketing her. She squirmed a tad, and found a little room for manoeuvre. Before he could stop her, she slid straight down. It was _her_ choice, after all. He'd agreed, and then sneakily gotten his own way before she got a turn, which was simply unfair. Somewhere in the last couple of hours, she'd remembered just how much she enjoyed no-holds-barred, spectacular, simple…sex.

He made an unhappy, _where-are-you_ noise, which was abruptly replaced by a gasp when she breathed moistly across him. "Kate…" That was disappointing. He could remember her name, which meant he could remember his own. Well, she'd change that in the next few minutes. He'd already sprung to attention. Now. Where should she start? Fingers, or mouth? Both. Both were good.

She flickered the tips of her fingers around him, and then took time to explore the soft skin behind. He tensed pleasingly, and his hands moved to her head. "Nope," she said. "Hands away." He actually whined, but did as he was told, fisting them into the rumpled sheets. "It's my turn." She drew a wicked little line around the root, tugging oh-so-very-gently at the hair. He squeaked, and as her fingers closed around him, swelled. Very pretty. "You like this," she smirked.

"I like _you_," he replied. The rest of any words died in an animalistic growl as she licked once, straight up, and then, ahem, really got down to it. He tasted really, really good. There was a slight aroma of sex, aroused male, and a hint of body wash, which she liked too. She hollowed out her cheeks, listened to his vocal approval, and did it again. And again. Then she added evil fingers and some thoroughly wicked touches, and he growled and then roared and came in a liquid rush and thrust.

"That was…amazing," he gasped out, and hauled her up to crush her into his chest and kiss her hard, heedless of the remnants of his explosion. "You're amazing." He kissed her again: deep, passionate, and oddly possessive. "Stay here."

"The only place I was going was the bathroom," she said dryly. She must have been mistaken. Possessive was silly. He was merely passionate.

He released her. She took a minute or two, and then returned. He was spread out across the bed, but when he saw her return he watched unashamedly, then sat up and, when she came within reach, simply gathered her in, tipping her across him and on to the bed. She laughed up at him. "Caveman."

"Not at all. Just making sure I've got you." He rolled over on to an elbow. "C'mere." She didn't move. Rick simply collected her, and pulled her over him. "See? Got you."

She hummed. She ought to flip back a smart retort, but she didn't have one. Instead she wriggled into a comfortable alignment.

Castle didn't want to let go of the length of luscious woman currently cuddled up against his chest. The longer she was there with him, the better he felt. He played with her hair, running his fingers through it, twisting the ends into curls, smoothing them down again. He became aware that her lashes were down, her body limp, her breathing soft and even.

"Worn out?" he teased softly.

"I'm not asleep."

"Good. Though you can, you know."

"Roll over and go to sleep? Isn't that your role?"

"Not until you're totally satisfied. Anyway, if I don't hold up my end of the bargain you might sneak off while I wasn't looking."

Kate propped herself up and stared at him. "You what now?"

About that point Castle realised what he'd said, and flapped his jaw fruitlessly. Unable to come up with a good answer, he hauled her up and kissed her again. Her response was instant: desire ignited between them all over again; he was as rock hard and aroused as the first moment he'd touched her lips, desperately covering himself, and when she slid against him she was hot and wet and ready for him. He rolled them, and paused, gentling the kiss when he wanted to raid and ravage, sliding slowly into her rather than plunging. She opened and curved and arched and brought him close, down to her: fingers flat, not nails biting; and they found a slow, smooth motion that suited them perfectly, all the way to another mind-shattering climax.

Castle's sex-fried brain managed one thought. _Keep her here_, it said. His fingers moved down, and played in her soaked centre, so over-sensitised that she came again almost before he'd realised.

"No more," she breathed, and took his hand away, curling it around her breast as she spooned in.

"Promise you'll stay the night, then." Now that his intense sexual frustration had been cured, he wanted to cuddle. Sure, she was a temporary solution, but he needed touch, and he needed _to_ touch, and she was addictively gorgeous and he wanted her right here.

"What are you, five?" Under the sardonic question, Kate was…no. Kate Beckett did not panic. Kate Beckett did not do naked snuggling. And Kate Beckett especially did not do instant _yes please_ to some stranger who wanted her to stay, even if he had provided more orgasms in two hours than her last boyfriend could manage in two weeks.

"Okay," her mouth said, without any permission from her non-existent neurons. Obviously her mouth and her hand had completely vacated her brain's control. Though his big hand around her breast was nice, and his big body around hers was equally nice, and, well, what harm could it do? Even for one night, being wholeheartedly _wanted_ was…well…comforting. Balm to ease her over-stressed psyche. She wriggled a little to become entirely enclosed, and let her eyelids droop.

Castle jerked awake, unsure where he was or why he was wrapped around a warm bundle of woman, focused on the clock, whose red numerals told him it was two a.m., and gradually realised that he'd fallen asleep as quickly and easily as a happily tired out child. Memory coalesced into the whole picture: the woman was called Kate, and they'd picked each other up in the motel bar, and it had all exploded into bed – and now he felt better, happier, and more relaxed than in months.

But in a few hours it would all be gone. He told himself firmly that one night stands were just that, and that they'd probably find they had nothing in common. God knew, he should know that spectacular sex was no foundation for anything. So it would all be just fine. A great memory, as he got on with his life. He dropped back into sleep, still curled around her.

Kate woke to an unusual feeling of total refreshment, which she rapidly put down to physical satisfaction and the pleasant warmth and strength around her. She could really use this…oh, no. Thinking like that was a huge mistake. It was a one-night stand, nothing more. They'd have nothing in common, and besides which, as soon as men found out that she was a cop they got weird. She had quite enough weird in her murder cases, thank you, and she didn't need more weird outside the job.

_But he's got a motorbike_, a little voice said. _And he really started you up_. She suppressed a snigger, and supposed that the song was appropriate. She snuggled back down, ignoring the slight soreness in her core, and closed her eyes again. Mornings were all very well, but a peaceful snooze was far preferable, especially with someone to snooze against. She'd simply enjoy it while it lasted, and have a good memory to take with her. Her lashes fell again.

Castle woke again, prompted by biology, and, having made himself comfortable, had a sneaky little thought. It wasn't a virtuous thought, but it refused to vacate his frontal lobes. Her purse was right there, and it would have an ID. Just a name. Just in case. Of course he'd not go searching for her, but…just in case.

He found her name, tapped it into his phone, and slid back into bed, cuddling up to the delightfully snuggly Katherine Beckett.

Kate woke again, thirsty, and detached herself from the man-sized limpet which was clinging to her to go to the bathroom and tip down a glass of water. As she drank it, she had a naughty, and completely inappropriate, thought, which was that she should find out Rick's full name. Just in case he was a serial killer, or on the Most Wanted list. She was a cop, after all. She firmly put the thought away, and resisted searching his room for his wallet with all her might. Reluctantly, she returned to the bed, cursing her professional ethics with every step, and curled back into a romantically rumpled Rick.

"Mmm, c'mere," the bundle managed, and tugged her back into him. A sleepy blue eye opened, and blinked. "Wanna cuddle," he added. Intelligence did not dominate his face. In fact, he resembled an oversized teddy bear. "C'mere, Kate." He pouted, which was ridiculously attractive. "'s not breakfast time."

"Wake up, Rick."

"Don't wanna," he muttered. "Stay in bed." His hands wandered a little. "Much nicer."

Ah, what the hell did it matter anyway? She wasn't in a hurry. She moved encouragingly under his hands, and essayed some wandering of her own. It had exactly the same effect as turning the key on her bike: his engine started up with a growl. He kissed her: another deep, passionate, hard kiss, pulling her in, and she gave herself up and was lost to the blazing physical reaction.

"I need to get a shower," she said, and stretched. There were aches where aches hadn't been for some time.

"I didn't" –

"I liked it. But now I want a hot shower."

Rick grinned lazily. "I could help with that," he enticed.

"Not now." She glanced at the clock. "I need to get going."

"I guess."

Kate gathered up her clothes under Rick's gaze, dressed for the brief journey back to her room, and emerged, not at all to her surprise, to find him waiting for her. (She couldn't tell herself that she wouldn't have waited for him.) His eyes flared at her leathers, but he didn't touch her. He looked good in his: sexy and dangerous, not at all the sleepy, cuddly man beside whom she'd woken up.

"So this is good bye?" he asked. She nodded. "It was great," he said, and closed his mouth on the word, as if he'd wanted to say more.

"Yeah. Walk out with me?"

"Sure."

He stood by her Harley, somehow unsure, and then shook himself. "It was great, Kate. Ride safely. Maybe we'll meet again."

"You too. It's all about the journey." She gave in to temptation, and hugged him; ducked her head so that he couldn't kiss her. If he kissed her, they'd go straight back inside. She straddled the bike, put her helmet on, and turned the key. The roar of the engine drowned out her thoughts. She didn't look back.

She wouldn't have seen anything anyway, through the blur. On the other hand, she didn't need to. She'd read – and memorised – his plates.

Castle watched until she was out of sight, and then started his own engine. He didn't follow her.

He didn't need to. He turned around, and rode back to his empty loft. And then he did what he did best: he researched.

* * *

Two weeks later, Kate walked out of the precinct with an entirely illicit piece of information tucked into her purse. She was still reeling from the shock of finding out who Rick-the-biker really was. On the other hand… Anyway. She hadn't stopped dreaming about him since they'd bade each other farewell. She went home, and scraped together all her courage.

Castle sat on his hands for two long, frustrating weeks, and then decided that Kate Beckett, NYPD Homicide Detective, _had_ to be back in Manhattan by now. He piled up every scrap of guts he had, and went down to his garage.

Just as Kate was about to dial Rick's only available number, someone rang her doorbell.

"My motorcycle's outside," Rick said, and bent to kiss her. "Want to start me up?"

_**Fin**_

* * *

_Thank you to all readers and reviewers._


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